A drive of eight miles brought us to the church, a simple, lowly
building, the "Grove Church" I believe it was called. Here beneath the
shade were drawn several carriages, and at the door a few
plantation-wagons waited, some laden with straw, others with articles
to be sent off. In the vestibule, boxes were being rapidly filled. It
was a busy scene, but by no means a gay one. A few unconscious
children "played at party" in the pews, setting out on leaves or bits
of bark their luncheon, broken into fragments, and serving in acorn
cups cold water for tea. Unmolested and unreproved, they ran up and
down the steps of the high, old-fashioned pulpit, half-fearfully
sitting down upon the minister's chair, or standing on tip-toe to peep
over the sacred desk at the busy group below. Young girls moved
silently about "helping." Over their pale lips not a ripple of
laughter broke. The fire of youth seemed to have died out of their sad
eyes, quenched for a time by floods of bitter tears.

To kindly question one of these replied, "Mamma is well, but of course
utterly prostrated, and does not leave her room. Papa is still in
Virginia nursing Buddie Eddie. We have no tidings of brother yet; he
is reported 'missing,' but we hope he may have been taken prisoner."

Some familiar faces were absent. And of these it was told that one had
lost a husband, another a son, and so the sadness deepened. Presently
the trot of a horse was heard. In another moment the good minister
stood among his people. Alas! he could only confirm the fearful tales
of battle and carnage. But from the storehouse of mind and heart he
brought forth precious balm, won direct from heaven by earnest prayer
and simple faith. With this he strove to soothe the unhappy, anxious
ones who looked to him for comfort. His heart yearned over his little